The Closet and How it was Cleaned
by osmalic
Summary: And in that closet: A Secret. Helgacentric


**The Closet (and How it was Cleaned)**

One of the things her parents never complained about was the state of her room, and it was something she had always been proud of.

Unlike others she knew, her room had always been neat. The dresser may be a bit chaotic, but only a trifle: a small bottle (tightly lidded) overturned, a lipstick (still capped) left in one corner in a hurry, or the blower cords (efficiently bound) still sticking out of the drawer. Her bed is always neatly made in the morning, not necessarily matching the color of her faded wallpaper, but at least neat and clean. She changes her sheets every week.

The bedroom is controllable. Whenever she thinks life is careening out of control, Helga Pataki knows, at least, her room is neat and presentable.

The wardrobe, however, is a different thing.

xxx

She does not like cleaning her wardrobe; the mess is too big and somehow, over the years, she has found comfort in the chaos. It is a big, walk-in closet with her shoes, dresses, and pants haphazardly thrown into different directions. Any semblance of order is non-existent, and sometimes it thrills her to think how different the universe is in this small and crowded place.

Crumpled paper litters the vicinity of the waste can. Easels and half-hearted attempts on art lay on the floor and sometimes hang on the wall, the ceiling, the back of the closet door. Books, half-opened, some marked and yellow-papered, fiction, biographies, self-helps, textbooks—she has always loved words and, she likes to think, the words love her back. All over the fading and ruined wallpapers are words: poetries, thoughts, favorite quotes, lists, diaries.

And in that closet: A Secret.

xxx

Helga G. Patacki does not like cleaning her closet, but she thinks, this time, it will be the last time.

She folds all her clothes and puts them in neat orders: shirts, pants, skirts, blouses. Shoes go to one corner. Belts hang from various hooks. Her ribbons are placed in one of the special drawers, now folded and arranged by color. It takes her a day to tidy up.

The Secret is the last to go. Looking at it now, it makes her smile and laugh a little, remembering. The melon never worked: it rotted after three days and Miriam complained of the smell, almost discovering her Secret. Wads of gum lasted for a while, and there was the shoe she used once (although it looked strangely asymmetrical). The football is the one that stayed for years. Hay for hair? A makeshift cap? A drawn smile only for her?

She thinks she was delusional.

xxx

"I wasted so much words," she sighs to herself, even though she hesitates in cleaning the litter of poems surrounding the figure.

xxx

But clean the closet she did. It was surprising—and a little disappointing, she discovers later—that it takes very little time. All that it is, she takes apart piece by piece. Slowly, carefully, it takes her a few hours to dismantle each glued hay, followed by the tacked-on football, then the sticks that formed the body. These are all carefully placed inside a nondescript box she has prepared.

It takes her longer to clean the jumble of papers. She takes her time, sitting on the strangely empty floor and looking through the discarded words. Words she had never shared, never showed the world. She thinks to herself: _Have I always been possessive?_ And she laughs to herself: _Yes._

It makes her a little sad to see all this now. She understands the use of words: they are meant to be shared, otherwise they are nothing, useless sounds floating and disappearing in the air. She, who finds beauty in their fragile existence, she who has slaved and sighed over these words as a little girl, has failed to let them go. Now, what is their use?

She asks herself: "If I've always been possessive over things, should I start over?"

xxx

She puts the papers—crumpled, dirty, fading, yellowed, browned, tear-stained, torn—in the box.

Possessive...and secretive, she thinks. But the words are part of The Secret. And she is not ready to share her words—not all of them. Not yet.

xxx

The suitcases lie open on her floor: the only chaos in the neat room. Many things are absent from her closet now; they have already been packed. Boxes are neatly arranged and labeled, containing books, folders, memories. These are the thing she will take with her.

But The Box now holding The Secret...that, she carefully packs and seals, meticulously checking if there will be no accidental tearing at the corners. Then she carries it in her arms; it is nothing special—just another box of junk she will not look at anymore. She takes it away from her room, down the stairs, through the hallway, outside to the trash bins waiting for the collectors.

A figure is walking down the street.

xxx

"Hey, Arnold," she greets.

Arnold stops and stares at her in undisguised surprise, but quickly recovers. "Helga. Packing already?"

Helga looks at him, the boy she loves—has loved—most of her life, and unconsciously feels a lifetime of memory weighing her arms. The Box feels like an ominous thing. "I'm going away," she mumbles, angry at herself. "College. What? You making something of it?"

"No," Arnold replies immediately, though he does spare The Box a small glance. "Just wondering. When're you leaving?"

"Tomorrow. You?"

"Next week." Curiosity must have taken hold because Arnold blurts out, "What's in the box?"

Helga opens her mouth. Shuts it. And thinks of anything to say. She thinks, _Memories of you because I can't take you with me. Not anymore. I'm tired of keeping you a secret._ But she says, "Words. I'm throwing them away."

"Oh." Arnold seems puzzled but he does not press. Instead, he says, "I hope you won't throw them away, though. You've always been a good writer, and it might be interesting to see how you've grown over the years."

Helga rolls her eyes. "Since when do you know stuff like these?"

Arnold shrugs. "Don't know, but it seemed like a nice idea."

xxx

When the awkward silence grows between them, Helga finally says, "Don't you have better things to do?"

And Arnold says, "No...but I'm leaving. See you."

"Go away," Helga tells his receding back.

xxx

But maybe she'll bring the box back to her room. The Secret will remain A Secret, but the words...the words may be useful.

She would unpack the paper, collect them neatly and carefully, put them in an envelope, and place it in her suitcase. Perhaps she will look at them in her dorm, surrounded by her new life, and think: _This was me once. I had A Secret. I loved._

And perhaps, perhaps, these words would give birth to more words, stories, poetries, universes she has yet to create. Or perhaps she'll put them under her new bed or in her new closet and forget they existed except in the deepest recesses of her mind and memories.

Or perhaps, perhaps one day, the words will be shared.

**-end- **

_I am going to clean my room  
full of anger and clothes,  
of useless things,  
of a past that cannot anymore be ignored.  
Of letters on a secret love  
and of photographs of elusive yesterdays  
that were painstakingly collected  
but now must be thrown away._

_I can't live on yesterdays anymore.  
So from now on...  
...from now on..._

_From now on._

- Sugarfree

* * *

One of the things that struck me about Helga's room (besides it being pink and purple) is how clean it is while her closet seems so...chaotic. I like to think it appeals to her personality: it's all there, you just have to search every inch. I think Helga, like Arnold, has the potential to be stronger. If anyone's going to save Helga from her problems, I have a feeling (even though Arnold's going to help), she's going to end up saving herself. 

Thank you for reading.


End file.
